


i'll run the risk of being intimate with brokenness

by tiredmenincorporated



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Pre-Canon, also child fundy!, dadbur is so real, future sbi family moments dw, tommy is a strange little baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28122096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredmenincorporated/pseuds/tiredmenincorporated
Summary: Wilbur was a father.It was at the core of his being. He loved Fundy, he loved his son more than anything else. Paternal instincts, in the end, muddled his mind more than anything his future, destructive self could even dream of. At the end of the day, he had a family, he was a brother, and he was a father. It was something he could never, ever forget.And that's where he is: A father. A father cradling a crying child to his chest, the smell of smoke and ash still lingering in his nose. A father, about to change the course of time
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 5
Kudos: 231





	i'll run the risk of being intimate with brokenness

Wilbur was always viewed as a hero.

He wasn’t a hero in the same way his older brother, Techno, was. His older brother started wars and ended them, saved people's lives, but laughed in their faces for getting into trouble in the first place. He never wanted to stay in one place for long and made more enemies than he made friends. But, still, at the end of the day, Wilbur always remembered the people Techno would help. The little parting gifts and bags of food that appeared from “nowhere.” How people Techno happened to save never went hungry.

_(In part, he was sure this was Phil’s doing, or in-part because Techno always had a soft spot for their father. Whether he was doing it to please Phil because he knew it would be what Phil would want, or if Phil did it himself and Techno helped, Wilbur would never know. Techno wasn’t open like that. But he was still his brother, even if he was only older by two hours, and he could read Techno like a book.)_

He wasn’t a hero in the same way Phil was, either, but that was obvious. Phil was a hero to him in ways nobody else was, because Phil was his father! 

Phil was an everyday hero; he helped Techno up when he got too roughed up in fights as a kid; he managed to keep the house from burning down when the twins were left alone to cook; he always made sure they were safe and their bellies were full, even if he had to sacrifice a day or two of three meals a day to make sure it happened.

_(It rarely happened—Phil was a smart man. But there were always bad nights. Bad nights unknownst to young Techno and Wilbur, while their father sat at the dining table, with his head in his hands.)_

And Wilbur was viewed as a hero too! Not a hero by his brother’s standards, and certainly never the hero that his father was, but people still called him a hero. This small town, a long walk away from his cabin in the mountains with his five-year-old son, was grateful for his help. He helped old ladies across streets, saved little kids from getting hit by carriages, knew how to stifle flames that were getting out of control, and knew how to solve issues without hitting anyone.

The town was grateful for him, and they were kind to him. And even though he never asked for money, they paid him for his help. And he wouldn’t turn that down, especially since it went towards helping Fundy live a good life.

So, as he fixed the straps on his bag, and told Fundy to go to sleep as soon as the sun was out of the sky, he was sure this trip would be the same as always.

Maybe he would be asked to attend another birthday or a wedding. Most of the invites he had to turn down, but he always promised to drop off something for them. And Wilbur never broke a promise like that.

What he wasn’t expecting, however, was to see smoke billowing up, and bright red and orange flames illuminating the night sky.

Wilbur’s bag drops to the snowy ground. He takes off in a run down the mountainside. _Something’s gone terribly, terribly wrong._

Carts fly past him as he stumbles into the town, panting hard with his hands on his knees. People are screaming, everywhere—he can feel the heat of the flames from here, and it's so, uncomfortably warm. People are gathered in the center, huddled up together as men and women try desperately to put out the flames licking up the side of buildings. Everything has gone to hell so, so quickly, and panic is pooling in Wilbur’s chest cavity.

A girl runs past him; he knows her. He catches her arm. “Emily, what happened?”

“We don’t know!” she shouts over the screaming. “One of the houses on the corner caught fire suddenly, and it’s spreading!”

Smoke chokes the air. Wilbur can hear children screaming. The ground feels shaky underneath his feet. He was a hero to these townspeople, but only in word. When a real disaster was going on, all he could think about was oh, _God, what if this happens to our cabin? What if I won’t be there for Fundy?_

His child takes up his thoughts again, turning every other instinct to mush. It’s not a problem—there’s a reason for this, and it is because he is a father. But when his son isn’t in danger, and yet others are, it’s something that weighs him down. He never knows what kicks it up in the first place, but he can usually push through it. He remembers once reading how heroes can’t have families and thinking it was bullshit, because of his father and his brother. Now, it hits home closer than any line before.

A shriek pierces the air, and Wilbur whips his head back. Emily didn’t hear it; she was too busy tugging on his arm and pointing to the people he should be helping.

“What was that?” he asks

_“What?”_

He shrugs off her arm, walking in the direction of the scream. People yell after him, yell _that was the first house, it’s unsavable, we don’t know if anyone was left inside, just leave it alone, they’re unsavable,_ but as his walking turns into a sprint, he knows something’s off.

Another wail echoes through the air as he reaches the house, the heat and flames radiating off making his skin hurt. His breath became panicked, his lungs begging for air as he stared, wide-eyed, up at the burning home. It wasn’t the fire doing this, it was him; his chest heaving as panic overtook him, no matter how much smoke he was inhaling by doing so. It was flipping a switch in his brain he almost forgot he had, with how peaceful his and Fundy’s lives had been.

Any rational person would run. Run from the burning house, unsalvageable, and save their own skin. But that wailing… the screaming and crying, mimicking the rough hours of the nights, early into Fundy’s lives. Before his cries calmed down into babbling and cooing, Wilbur softly humming the song Phil sang to him decades prior.

There was a child in there.

_There is a child in there._

The paternal switch in Wilbur’s brain flips. He’s ducking through the open door, despite voices screaming after him not to. The fire burns, grabbing for his flesh and clothes, trying to pull him down, but he ducks underneath a loose board and gets into the house without any injuries. So far.

Another scream, and he’s sprinting up the stairs. Another board has broken from the ceiling, set ablaze, blocking his path; he leaps over it, the flames licking at his pant legs and shoes, and only stumbles a step or two. He’s imagining Fundy—his little Fundy, so small and so innocent, with his mother’s eyes—in there instead. Imagining Fundy, screaming and wailing for his papa to come save him from the fire, but getting no response.

Nothing like that would ever happen to Fundy, and Wilbur cannot imagine what kind of parents could ever leave their child to burn. 

Well, he’s nothing like those parents, and he’s getting that baby out. He’s getting himself and that baby out, no matter the cost. (As long as it wasn’t their lives.)

Another scream as his feet slid across the carpet, nearly losing balance. It was coming from the room at the end of the hall, and he sprints as the fire creeps closer to him. He doesn’t know how he’s gotten this far. 

There’s something—someone—screaming in his head, and it sounds like his father. 

“I won’t fail you,” he whispers. For Phil. For Fundy.

One good kick and the door comes crashing down. It was locked—what kind of sick fuck locks their child's room, during a fire?—and the screaming starts ringing in his ears, now. The flames are now in the doorway as he bounds across the room and to a little, red and white crib, with a window in front of it. A window with a latch. A window that he can open.

A glance at the child and he has to be a month old, at most. The same age Fundy was when Sally had enough and left them in the night. The same crying newborn, of which it took him _two months_ to learn the perfect way to rock him. The way Sally never taught him.

The same child, waiting for him at home.

This infant, crying and wailing.

He picks the infant up, bringing a bundle of blankets with him. Cradles him to his chest. Ignores the fire, and kicks the crib to the side; he hears it catch fire. Tries to open the latch, and when it doesn’t budge, he shatters the window with his elbow. The baby screams louder as the glass falls to the ground, and he hoists himself into the window. 

There’s blood on him, now. Loose shards of glass piercing his skin. He doesn’t notice; he doesn’t care; all Wilbur does is hold the child as close to him as possible, a hand cradling the back of his head. He remembers the movements Techno taught him as a kid, sparring in the backyard— _tuck and roll, don’t land on your feet, you idiot!_ —and jumps.

And he lands. Rolls a few feet, nearly rams his head into the ground. 

But what reassures him most is the cries still coming from the bundle in his arms. _The baby wasn’t hurt,_ he thinks. _Oh, thank God the baby wasn’t hurt._

Then, the reason kicks in, his adrenaline drains out, and his entire body slumps.

* * *

Wilbur is a rational man.

For the most part, that is.

He solves problems with words, _for the most part._ He thinks out every decision, _for the most part_ . He listens and is a kind, good person, _for the most part._

But everyone has their flaws.

And his?

He has an impulsive streak.

An impulsive streak, well known to his father and brother. An impulsive streak, leading him up the path to his cabin, the bag he dropped long forgotten, with a baby asleep on his chest.

He asked around, all around. If anyone knew anything about the homeowners or anything about the family that lived in that house. Surprisingly, he learned nothing; more surprisingly, nobody knew anything about the people who lived there. Nothing, aside from faces that appeared in the windows on occasion. Not surprisingly, nobody wanted anything to do with the child in his arms, so it was left to Wilbur to brave the snowy mountains with this new shock to his life.

As the energy continues to seep from his body, the decision starts to dawn on him. He now has to look out for another kid, seeing as nobody from the town wanted a baby, nor did they know where he came from in the first place. Nobody knew who that family was, aside from a baby with a head full of curly blonde hair (unlike Fundy, who had been born bald; Techno made fun of it for ages). For all Wilbur knew, this kid could be from the mafia, and he’d be hunted down for stealing the next leader-in-training, or something.

Wilbur was cut out to be a father, whether he asked for it or not. Sally thrust that upon him; however, it was his young, careless brain that got him into the situation in the first place. He did his best to raise Fundy and thought he did a pretty damn good job. So far, at least.

But two children?

Wilbur doesn’t have the energy for that. He wastes all his energy on being a hero, and on Fundy, and then collapses into bed at night. He forgets to bathe for weeks at a time and is only snapped out of it when Fundy’s nose wrinkles as he reads him a bedtime story. Phil has to come by—often for weeks at a time—to help out, while Wilbur tries to piece his life back together, every time he makes the smallest of fuck-ups.

He can’t raise another kid. Not to mention a newborn, not close to being weaned off milk (which, by the way, is fucking impossible to get in small towns like this. He learned enough from raising Fundy). And, with every winter colder than the last, stretching supplies between one grown man and two children would be damn-near _impossible._

But he knows who's a good father. Who raised multiple kids, even through the toughest winters.

And Phil’s getting lonely at home, now with one son at war, and the other one raising a family of his own. He wouldn’t mind some company (or a new duty).

“He’ll love you,” he murmurs. The bundle in his arms is fast asleep, and doesn’t hear him; Wilbur doesn’t mind.

Once he gets home, he’ll grab his communicator and call Phil. He doesn’t know how long it’ll take his dad to get there, but once he does, he’ll give the kid to him. He’s almost certain that Phil will take him under his wing. And if he doesn’t, well, Phil knows much, much more people than Wilbur does. He’ll be able to find the kid a good home.

And speaking of home…

It was fast approaching. He took much, much longer than usual to get home; he knows this. And so a small figure is standing in the doorway, blankets piled on his small shoulders, waiting for him. Fundy usually sleeps through times like these, when Wilbur takes too long getting home, but something woke him up this time. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to be panicking; as Wilbur approaches, his gaze shifts from confusion to curiosity.

“What’re you holding, Papa?” he calls out.

“Get some more blankets for me, would you, Funds? Leave them on the couch,” he responds. He’ll explain everything once this fucking infant was out of the snowy, cold weather. Fundy hesitates in the doorway, before nodding and heading inside.

Wilbur follows and kicks his boots off as the door. Kicking the door shut with his foot, he sighs, content, as the warm air hits him. It’s certainly much, much warmer than the cold outside, and Fundy is piling their wool blankets onto the couch.

“Thanks, kiddo,” he says, rustling Fundy’s hair as he passes (avoiding his ears, of course).

Then, he collapses onto the couch. The baby stirs in his arms, whimpering a little bit before Wilbur can shuck off his ash-coated blankets and tuck him carefully in soft, wool ones. 

“Woah!” Fundy whispers.

“Woah indeed,” Wilbur says. “I found this little fella during an… incident, in the town. He’s going to stay with us, for a little bit.”

Fundy’s eyes shine. “Am I getting a little brother?” he asks.

Wilbur winces. “No, sadly,” he says, and tries not to let the way his son’s face falls get to him. “We’re going to hold onto him for a little bit until your grandpapa can get here. Phil will know what to do with him. Who knows, maybe you’ll get another uncle!"

“A baby uncle? That’s weird…”

“Sometimes life is weird, Funds.”

“Can we at least name him?” Fundy begs, and _oh no._

God. Wilbur does not want to have this conversation with his son again. It went amazingly the first time, and who knows how much worse the second could go. He sighs. “You know what I say about this, kiddo. If you name something, you get attached to it. This applies to people, too. And we can’t get attached. He will be leaving after a few days.”

Fundy pouts. “I won’t get attached! I just want to name him!”

“Do you remember when you found that little arctic fox, Fundy?” Wilbur says. “The one you loved so, so much? And how you named him Floris, because you thought it’d be a nice name for a fox? And how hard you cried when it left, just a day later? And how you were sad for a week straight? I don’t want that to happen to you again, so we can’t name him. He can just be ‘the baby’ until then, okay?”

 _Fuck._ That was the wrong decision.

Fundy screws up his face, and storms off to his room. Wilbur sighs, massaging his temples with one hand, cradling the now-awake baby with the other arm. “Good going, dipshit,” he says, hitting himself in the head with a palm. 

But… as much as he hates to say it, right now, there were more pressing matters to attend to. One was contacting Phil, and the other was finding a way to feed and dress this baby until his dad arrived. Which, _at least,_ would take a few days. 

(Unless Phil was in the area, but Wilbur was never that lucky.)

Thankfully, the communicator was right where he left it: On the cushion next to him, half-buried in cracks between seats. He digs it out, opens Phil’s channel, and sends a message. Then, he sets the communicator down and waits for a message.

 _He’s taking long today,_ Wilbur thinks, as he tries to rock the now-whiny baby back to sleep. _I wonder what’s up. He responds to my messages instantly._

He tries again, to no success. Wilbur scowls, more out of concern than anger, then messages Techno.

_Is Phil okay? He’s not responding to my messages._

This response is instant: _oh he’s pulled himself into some new project or whatever. disappeared into the house and isn’t responding to anyone's messages lmao. good luck trying to get through to him_

“For _fuck’s_ sake!” he hisses to himself.

He’s not mad at his dad; he could never be mad at Phil unless he did something very fucked up. And this wasn’t very fucked up—not at all close. It was just extremely, extremely inconvenient, following Wilbur’s trail of bad luck perfectly.

Now, he has to figure out a way to care for this child until Phil finishes his project. Which could be in a day, or in a _month._

And it was just now starting to dawn on him how weird it was, that the baby wasn’t hurt at all by the fire, smoke, or ash. And how weird it was, that the baby would start screaming only when Wilbur got to the town, according to the other people living there. Two children were rough enough, but a _mystery_ on top of it? Wilbur would break down.

Small footsteps patter into the room, and Wilbur sighs. Again. “Not now, Fundy. I’m sorry, I’m just really stressed right now and it’s getting late—”

A book is shoved in his face.

“Tommy,” Fundy says.

“What?” Wilbur croaks out.

“Tommy,” Fundy says again, pointing to the book.

“You mean Thomas?” he says. “That’s the main character, I know.

His son shakes his head. “No, _Tommy,”_ he says again, more urgently. He points to the book again, then points to the baby. “His name is _Tommy.”_

It dawns on him. Fundy wants to name the kid _Tommy._

“We had this conversation already, you know we can’t—”

Wilbur cuts himself off. He doesn’t know how long this kid will have to stay with them. Referring to him solely as “the baby,” or “the infant,” or “the newborn,” would get tiring, after a while. An actual name is much, much more simple. And Fundy seems set in stone, a strange, new look of determination on his face as he repeats, “His name is _Tommy.”_

Wilbur sighs again, for the final time.

“Tommy’s a nice name,” he says. “Alright, then. His name is Tommy.”

**Author's Note:**

> I will state this right now: I have a messy relationship with the Dream SMP. I do not know, after this, if I'll write any more stories on this account at all. I have mixed feelings towards a lot of the actors (some of you might be able to guess who I'm talking about).
> 
> However... I got this idea in my mind, and now it won't leave. It won't let me do schoolwork, either, so I have to write it.
> 
> So, have a Dadbur AU. I thought about how tragic it would be, if SMP!Wilbur was Tommy's father instead of brother, realized Fundy was older than Tommy (technically), and everything fell into place. (Note: I adore the SBI family, despite my mixed feeling on the SMP. I love their dynamic as brothers w/ Phil as their father. But, like I said, my brain wouldn't let this idea go.)
> 
> This story has three chapters planned, and don't worry, I have most things thought out. I know what I'm doing. The next chapter should, hopefully, be out within the next week. I love and appreciate all comments and feedback!
> 
> Title is from Atlas: Son by Sleeping at Last, and the chapter names are from We're On Our Way by Radical Face (I changed it due to a different idea I had with Always Gold that I liked better).


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